


Well... He IS a Jolly-Good Fellow.

by MaverikLoki



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Fenders, M/M, artemis hawke, corset abuse, organ-fondling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3564782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"To be fair, Hawke’s intentions were good. He had been, for once, one of the more sober members of their group that night a month ago, and miraculously just sober enough to remember the date.</p>
<p>And the date was a random Tuesday, but a random Tuesday to which they’d added significance."</p>
<p>Fenris' birthday celebrations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well... He IS a Jolly-Good Fellow.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeroMaggie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroMaggie/gifts).



> For HeroMaggie’s birthday, a blend of her “Fevered Dreams” and my “TnT” canon (i.e., my Artemis Hawke, her Fenders). It’s every bit as predictable as you expect, but hey, it’s Fenders!

To be fair, Hawke’s intentions were good. He had been, for once, one of the more sober members of their group that night a month ago, and miraculously just sober enough to remember the date.

And the date was a random Tuesday, but a random Tuesday to which they’d added significance.

They’d been discussing birthdays—Maker knows why—and comparing the more ridiculous celebrations they’d had. Varric had mentioned blindfolds and Antivan piñatas and sticks that weren’t quite long enough to make up for dwarven legs. Merrill had told about stringing lit candles to trees, one for each year (“And, really, isn’t that a fire hazard?”). Hawke had mentioned the duchess cakes his father used to get him, while Carver had insisted his blueberry tarts were better. Aveline had muttered about the frilly dresses her grandmother used to get her every year that she pretended to love.

The discussion had gone around the table, only to stall at Fenris, who’d bristled and shrunk away from their stares. _“I have no memory of birthdays,”_ he’d muttered into his drink, _“or even of when my birthday_ is _.”_

There had been an awkward silence while everyone had reacquainted themselves with their drinks, until Merrill had suggested, sweetly and brilliantly, that they pick a day for Fenris. A month from that day, they’d decided, and Fenris had blinked and grunted something that managed to sound both irritated and pleased.

Then the stories had continued around the table, Anders and Isabela had turned the discussion into something less family friendly, and the matter was forgotten.

But Hawke had remembered, and Fenris had agreed to meet them at the Hanged Man for a low-key celebration. Secretly, everyone had arranged to bring mementos of their own childhood birthdays (complete with Varric’s piñatas and Aveline’s frilly dresses), and Hawke had gone to collect the elf of the hour.

“Fenris!” Hawke called, pushing into the mansion when no growly elf appeared.

Hawke climbed the stairs of Fenris’ tattered mansion. He was armed, as any mage should be, not with a staff but with a bottle of wine, most specifically a Sun Blonde Vint-1, which, as far as Hawke could tell, sounded just snooty enough to be expensive.

Shouts echoed down to him.

“Fenris?”

Darting after the sounds, Hawke hefted the bottle, hoping it would work in place of a staff if need be. He slammed open the door to Fenris’ bedroom, and—

“Fenris, are you—Oh.”

The shouting stopped, and so did the—uh— _activity_. The _impressively athletic_ activity, which involved a glowing elf and a Warden in a corset—a _corset_ —and were those piercings on Anders’—?

“Hawke?” Anders squeaked, hands going up to cover his nipples. Fenris growled and glowed brighter, his hands actually _inside Anders’—_!

“I was, um,” Hawke stammered, fingers dancing on the wine bottle, “I was going to… I’ll just meet you at the Hanged Man, shall I?”

He took Fenris’ growl as a yes and shut the door.

Hawke turned, only to pause on the steps and turn back, throwing the door open again. “Okay, Anders, seriously,” he said. “You have piercings on your… _that_ , you have his _that_ in your _what_ , and your _what_ on… and you cover your _nipples_?”

“I panicked!” Anders squeaked, crimson flooding his cheeks and spilling down his chest.

“ _Hawke_ ,” Fenris groaned, teeth grit.

“Right. Hanged Man.”

He closed the door. Then opened it again.

“Happy Birthday, Fenris—”

Hawke closed the door before the lamp could smash into his head.


End file.
